


The Replacement Animator

by LadyLampblack



Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Body Horror, Dreams Come to Life AU, Gaslighting, Graphic Description, Horror, Imprisonment, Mental Abuse, Mental Torture, Paranoia, Physical Abuse, Physical Torture, Psychological Horror, Stabbing, Torture, arm removal, buddy being simultaneously a pushover and a stubborn bitch, buddy loses a hand, future bodily mutilation, in which joey is batshit insane, in which joey tries to groom buddy into being henry 2, ink corruption, intentional wrong name usage, more to be added as the story progresses - Freeform, nonconsensual injections, old timey insults, steroid usage, with gotdamn forks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-15 03:35:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21246827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLampblack/pseuds/LadyLampblack
Summary: Based off of Buddy in the Walls by bittertrees***God, all of this is so messy.  Even after everything, I still don’t know what Joey wants with me.  He keeps calling me the wrong name, and I think it’s starting to screw with my head.He’s obsessed, Dot, seems fixated on the idea that if he can just… do whatever he’s planning to do with me the right way, he’ll be back in the - - -***The letter cuts off there.  She knows she's getting closer, but... will he be the same when she finds him?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Heyoooo! I managed to slap out 3k words before i actually posted this, but if you haven't read Buddy in the Walls, you absolutely should. it sticks closer to the tone of the book than mine does. i feel like the tone i write in suits the kind of story i'm doing more, though. i have no set schedule for updates, but i hope you enjoy what i have so far! it's a real blast writing it!

_ God, all of this is so messy. Even after everything, I still don’t know what Joey wants with me. He keeps calling me the wrong name, and I think it’s starting to screw with my head. _ __   
__   
_ He’s obsessed, Dot, seems fixated on the idea that if he can just… do whatever he’s planning to do with me the right way, he’ll be back in the - - - _ __   
__   
_ Sorry about that smudge, he’s been making me write and draw wrong-handed, and this ink is everywhere. The worst part is, it’s actually not really that hard to use the wrong hand anymore. I’m getting better, and I don’t think I like that. Where was I? _ __   
__   
_ \- - -  _ _ ILLEGIBLE _ _ \- - - _ __   
__   
_ \- - - e found out about how I was using my right hand when he wasn’t around. That made him mad. Now I can’t use it anymore. It’s just  _ _ gone, _ _ Dot, he just - - - It’s horrible. _ __   
__   
_ If he’s trying to make me into his old friend… _ __   
__   
_ Dot, I hope this reaches you, wherever you are. And if you ever meet this Henry guy… tell him to never come back. _ __   
__   
***   
A single kick was all it took.   
  
With a loud screech and a sudden release catapulting Buddy out of the floor like he’s made of rubber, the lanky teen crashes to the floorboards into a heap on top of Dot. He weakly crawls over to peek over the ledge once he catches his breath.   
  
Buddy stares down into the open hole in the theater floor with morbid curiosity. “Did… did we win?” he asks breathily, tongue thick in his mouth as Dot half-crawls over to heft him up off the ground. The sudden pressure makes his entire body sting and burn in pain from the wounds that Bendy- no, that  _ monster,  _ that horrific creature he’d accidentally unleashed - had inflicted on him while trying to drag him down into the ink. Dot gives him a wary smile.   
  
“I… think we won, yeah. L-let’s go try to get Jacob out of here, okay?”   
  
“Water,” Buddy responds, almost apropos of nothing. “We-we-we need to clean that ink off of him. Water and a rag.”   
  
Dot gives Buddy an odd look but nods. “You look like you could use a bath yourself,” she comments. “Come on.”   
  
With that, she leads the charge as Buddy painfully limps after her. He feels almost… cold. He doesn’t even hear the footsteps approaching behind until a hand snags the back of his shirt and roughly tugs him back.   
  
“What are you two doing down here?” A familiar voice nearly growls, causing Dot to turn abruptly and Buddy to blink rapidly as he tries to recover from his attempted whiplash.   
  
“M-Mister Drew!” Buddy cries. “We-we were trying to help them!”   
  
Joey Drew wraps an arm around Buddy’s neck, putting him in a chokehold. “You’ll do no such thing. You two could easily ruin everything with a single peep! I’m not letting my plans fall because of some fat-head that passes the buck and his  _ floozie  _ of a friend!”   
  
Dot snarls. “Who are you calling a floozie?!” she demands, stomping towards him. The man raises a leg to heftily kick her in the chest, sending her reeling back in surprise. She manages to balance herself near the edge of one of the pits. Joey seems to have flipped a switch to open more.   
  
“Now, I really need to be going. If I want my studio back in the big leagues, I have some work to do!”   
  
Joey’s grip tightens as he says this, making Buddy gag. “Let him go!” Dot calls, rushing right back over. Too late, Joey backs out of the room through a door he’d been blocking and slams it shut, locking Dot in the Ink Machine room.   
  
“No!” Buddy coughs, clawing at Joey’s arms. The older man can be heard scrabbling for something, and a hard object is smacked against Buddy’s head with a surprising amount of force. The teen’s vision blurs, and his head lolls some.    
  
Joey drops him, kicking him in the head for good measure before calling out something Buddy can’t make out. A couple of figures wander into the room and make a beeline for Buddy, picking him up.   
  
_ “Careful with him. Wouldn’t want him to leave us again, would we?” _   
  
That’s the last Buddy hears before his brain drags him into unconsciousness.   
  
***   
  
He wakes up in a haze, side and leg stinging terribly. His eyes crack open warily to a dark room with no apparent entrance or exit. He pushes himself up, squinting his eyes to try seeing better, and carefully pats himself down.   
  
He’s been out long enough that his wounds have stopped openly weeping and the ink on him has… dried? Sort of? More congealed, really. A sense of dread fills him, and he tries scratching off the ink.   
  
No luck. He doesn’t even feel his nails through the substance.   
  
There’s the sound of a door opening. Buddy looks over quickly only to be blinded by a lantern.   
  
“Ah, Henry, you’re awake!” Joey’s voice chirps cheerfully as if the man had simply taken Buddy on a day trip to an expensive hotel. “My my, you really need to change your clothes there, old friend. You’ve gone and gotten ink on them again.”   
  
Buddy blinks the stars out of his eyes and squints up at the approaching Mister Drew. “S-sir, what are you talking about? My name’s not Henry.”    
  
Joey’s expression immediately tightens, and so does his grip on - Buddy takes a moment to spot it - a tray of food and a mug of some sort of drink he’d been carrying with one hand.   
  
“Don’t be so foolish.” he curtly responds, setting the tray down hard on a table Buddy hadn’t been able to see in the dark. “Sit down and eat. Quickly. We have things we need to do.”   
  
“W-what kinds of things, Mister Drew?” Buddy asks sheepishly, unsure of Joey’s sudden apparent mood swings.   
  
“Why, work of course!” the man beams once again, throwing the teen off guard. “We want to get this studio back up and running again, don’t we?”   
  
“You might,” Buddy responds frankly, “But I have to go home to my Ma and Grandpa.”   
  
Joey roughly grabs Buddy by the arms and firmly forces him to sit at the table. “Eat. Now.”   
  
Fearful of Joey’s tone, Buddy complies. He nearly gags after his first bite from a rancid, rubbery taste in his mouth. “W-what is this?!” he asks, eyeing the meal.    
  
“It’s food,” Joey responds, curt once again. Scared of the tone, the teen keeps eating despite the taste.   
  
Mouth dried from the food, he attempts a wary sip at mystery drink. He retches at the taste and splutters out a familiar-smelling black liquid. “M-Mister Drew, is this ink?!” he asks in horror.   
  
“What will you do if it is?”   
  
Buddy gets up and manages to lift Joey some by the lapels of his shirt, hysterical strength fuelling him past his pain. “Mister Drew, you gotta let me go! I gotta go home and make sure Dot is okay and-”   
  
Buddy gets a slap to the face, thoroughly surprising him. He lets Joey go, and the man pushes the mug of ink back into the teen’s hands. “Drink it.  _ Now _ .”   
  
Hands shaking violently, the teenager sets down the mug. “M-Mister Drew, I  _ can’t, _ Sammy-”   
  
The metal fork that Joey brought with the food is whipped up and pointed dangerously close to Buddy’s face. “You’ll do it if you know what’s good for you, Henry.”   
  
“Sir, m-my name is  _ Buddy.  _ It’s  _ Daniel!  _ Please, stop calling me-”   
  
The sharp tines of the fork careen into Buddy’s arm, and he cries out in shock and pain. “You best watch your tongue,  _ boy.  _ Next time, it’s your back.”   
  
Buddy stares at Joey in shock and wide-eyed horror. The older man quickly calms down. “Just… don’t talk back and do what you’re told to, and everything will be just aces.”   
  
Dumbly, mutely, Joey’s spidery little victim nods. The mug is pushed back into his hands, the fork removed, and he drinks from the mug as he shivers violently.   
  
“M-Mister Drew, why are you doing this?” Buddy hazards asking.   
  
“We’re supposed to be famous. And you’re my key to getting that back.”   
  
Once Buddy finishes choking down the mug of ink, Joey takes it and the rest of the dishes with him when he leaves, and Buddy is left alone with the still lit lantern. He takes the moment of respite to check his new injury. It’s already scabbed over with the shiny black of the ink despite being absolutely fresh. He figures the ink he’s swallowed is healing him faster.   
  
He still isn’t sure what Joey is going to do with him. He doesn’t know why he’s doing this to him or what he wants from him.   
  
He doesn’t know why he keeps calling him Henry. There was that one time that seemed to be just an accident, but… it’s been happening a lot more all at once.   
  
… Was this planned? Or was it a spur of the moment thing? He can’t really tell, it’s so vague to him. He has no clue about what Joey is planning.   
  
He needs to get out. Fast. Before the ink starts getting to him. He can already feel it start to addle his brain, and he’s willing to admit he’s not the best at thinking.   
  
He looks around the now-lighted room, attempting to get his bearings. The room is kind of small, the aforenoticed table and chair the centerpiece. Against the wall Buddy had been nearest to is a slouchy, kind of beat up couch settled right next to a small dresser that’s almost the size of two stacked coffee tables; on the opposite wall is a small wood stove with a neighboring pantry. On the wall furthest from the - visibly padded - door, there is an angled desk not unlike the one belonging to Henry in the animation department. Next to that is a dark doorway, which looking into proves is in fact a restroom. It almost seems like a little apartment, and not at all like the prison it really is.   
  
Warily, he moves to investigate the pantry, discovering all the non perishable foods it’s been stocked with. Looks like Joey plans on keeping him here for a while. He wonders how Joey’s going to feed him ink all the time if he already stocked the place with cans and cans of different kinds of foods. A quick glance inside the stove says it’s already filled with wood and there are matches available in a cupboard also filled with pots and pans and other dishes.    
  
He checks inside the dresser warily next, finding that one drawer is filled just with differently colored dress shirts. The lower drawer is filled with matching dress pants in shades of brown, grey, and black. He can’t help but stare at all the clothes in shock. He’s never owned so many sets of clothes before. There has to be at least six or seven of each kind!    
  
On top of the dresser is a small box of socks and a pair of shoes, just his size. Buddy looks down at his feet to see that they’re bare aside from the coating of ink on them. No wonder he hasn’t felt the floor despite not wearing socks or shoes. The shoes and socks are, wisely, already black so the ink won’t stain them too noticeably.    
  
“Mister Drew really thought of everything…” Buddy mumbles to himself, closing up the dresser and investigating the desk. It has a couple inkwells, pens to go with, and several sheafs of the high-quality paper he’s taken before as well as a stool, all just like the desk he’d had upstairs. Was it upstairs? He can’t tell how far underground he is.   
  
Seeing all the art supplies… it makes his hands itch. Like he wants to  _ do _ something, but he can’t place what exactly. It’s not an entirely unfamiliar sensation, even if it is a bit more intense than it normally would be. Now that he’s explored his entire little cell, he doesn’t have much else to do. He should just… draw, shouldn’t he? While he has the time to practice? He sidles into the seat, fingers jittering nervously, and picks up a pen and a page. He sits there for a few moments, immediately drawing a blank on what he should draw.   
  
After a few moments of deliberation, he decides to practice drawing Bendy some. Now is the perfect time to get some practice in without Joey breathing down his neck. It takes him a good few minutes, but he… actually thinks this is his best attempt yet. It’s simple, just Bendy waving hello, but Buddy thinks it’s quite nice. He gets to practicing more Bendy drawings, and he loses track of time when he hears the door open.    
  
“Ah, getting back into the grind are you?” Joey’s voice asks. “You always did take pride in your art.”   
  
Buddy turns around and gives Joey a confused look after getting over his small shock.   
  
“Mister Drew, I don’t-”   
  
“Please, Henry, we’ve known each other for years. You can just call me Joey.”   
  
As they talk, the older man saunters over and looks over Buddy’s shoulder. Swiftly, he smacks Buddy’s drawing hand.    
  
“Use your other hand.” he commands. Buddy shakes his hand to clear away the pain and awkwardly switches the pen to his left hand, too scared to protest or correct him after what happened to his arm. “Now draw.” the older man commands next. Shakily, unsure after just getting down the process with his regular hand, he tries to draw a simple circle with his left hand. He hates how lopsided it looks, and he feels like he’s learning to draw all over again.   
  
He… basically is. He has to remind himself of the stuff his grandfather taught him.   
  
“You’ve gotten worse over the years.” Joey comments. Buddy feels worse.    
  
“Mister Drew-”   
  
“Please, Henry, call me Joey. And change out of those ruined clothes, seriously. I’ll even give you some privacy.”   
  
Joey walks over to the dresser, pulls out a top and bottom, and sets them on the arm of the couch. “If you’re still wearing those stained clothes when I get back, there will be hell to pay.”   
  
With that, Buddy is left alone again, shivering to himself in fear and confusion. Thinking he hears Joey coming back, he clumsily scrabbles to the couch  _ -with his stupid clown feet-  _ and starts peeling off his ruined clothes. He internally laments at this because it’s all he has left of his mother right now.    
  
The new clothes… don’t fit very well. The pant legs come up to halfway up his calves, his sleeves match at a little below the elbow, and the torso shows off his midriff, especially when he raises his arms. They still manage to be baggy by being clearly tailored to someone with a larger, wider torso. Buddy can’t help but feel like a gangly stick in these ill-fitting clothes, but digging in the dresser proves that everything else is the same size.   
  
He gives his old clothes a longing look. It’s pretty common for stuff to not fit him, but… this is ridiculous. It’s like Mister Drew is  _ trying  _ to humiliate him. He’s grateful at least the shoes look like they’ll fit…   
  
“Are you decent, Henry?” Joey asks, and Buddy looks over to see the older man opening the door. Buddy holds his tongue, resisting correcting him again for what would probably be the sixth time.   
  
“Ah… y-yeah…” he mumbles. “It’s all a bit… poorly fitting, though. Too short and wide.”   
  
Joey waltzes over casually to pat Buddy between the shoulderblades. “I know it’s big shoes to fill up, but you’ll grow into your role again. I promise.”   
  
“I… I feel like if I grow any more, I won’t be able to walk through doors.” Buddy responds simply. Joey barks out a laugh and claps him on the back, prompting Buddy to join in nervously as he wonders what the joke is supposed to be.   
  
“There you go being all literal again! No, no, it’s a metaphorical thing.”   
  
The teenager nods slowly, unsure of how he should react to his boss’ erratic behavior.   
  
“Sir, I, uh… I still don’t know why you keep calling me Henry.” Buddy says aloud, getting a sharp look from Joey that instinctively makes him wince.   
  
“Because it’s your  _ name. _ ”   
  
“But it-” Buddy cuts himself off before he can say anything more.   
  
“But what?” Joey asks, voice low and threatening.   
  
“... N-nothing.”   
  
Joey purses his lips and nods firmly. “You best get back to work, old friend. You’ve gotten rusty.”   
  
Buddy nods numbly, staring at his ink stained hands.   
  
He feels so overwhelmed. There’s so much happening at once, he doesn’t know if he can handle it…   
  
He sits down hard on the couch, stunned and disoriented. He doesn’t know how long he sits there and stares, thinking about nothing aside from how scared he is and how he wants to go home. He… doesn’t quite want to draw anymore, unmotivated by Joey’s command to use the wrong hand. He doesn’t know what will happen if Mister Drew found out…   
  
He honestly could use the practice. With both hands.   
  
He blinks to himself to find the room has dimmed. The lantern is beginning to run low on fuel. Buddy walks over to turn it off before blindly wobbling back over to the couch and laying down on it.   
  
He resumes staring into space, accompanied by darkness and the sound of his heartbeat in his ears. It’s so strange, living alone after being used to living with at least one other person in the apartment his whole life. He should be excited, finally living on his own, but… He can’t be. Not with the circumstances behind it. Not with how it will affect his family.   
  
This is a disaster.    
  
Buddy covers his face, squeezing his eyes shut - not that it makes much of a difference - and shuddering. Everything that had happened that day, the big party, the mess with the ink machine, losing Dot, getting kidnapped and  __ stabbed with a fork…  It was all crashing down on him at once. He can’t help but let out a dry little sob, shielding his head with his gangly arms and sending a small draft across his belly.   
  
Why him? Why not someone else with a lot less at stake or a lot less to lose? It doesn’t make sense…   
  
His thoughts drift aimlessly as he comes down from his adrenaline high. He really wishes that this was all just one big nightmare.   



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: SEVERE GORE IN THIS ONE. IF LIMB DISMEMBERMENT MAKES YOU SQUEAMISH, SKIP THE REST OF THE CHAPTER FROM THE POINT JOEY SCREAMS

Buddy ends up crying himself to sleep and wakes up to the room being lighted again from a light fixture that hadn’t been on, presumably because it was night. His eyes are sore and itchy, and his stomach rumbles uncomfortably.   
  
He really wants to eat something, but at the same time, he doesn’t think he can trust the food in the cupboard. Something about it… it rubs him the wrong way. It’s all too neat and perfect when the studio is supposed to have fallen on hard times.   
  
But even so…   
  
He’s hungry. Starving, even. He clumsily pushes himself up, painfully aware of his still throbbing wounds, and spies that what’s on the table has changed. Instead of the empty lantern, there’s another tray of food with a mug and some food on it. From here, it smells so good, he almost doesn’t care that it’s going to have ink in it. He can just tell how hot and delicious it’s going to be.   
  
Suddenly, he gets an idea on what to do about the mug of ink. There’s a bathroom with a sink right there. He ambles over to the tray and grabs the mug of disgusting sludge before slouching into the bathroom. He tests the tap before doing anything more, and is relieved when clean water comes out. He dumps the mug, rinses it a few times to make good and certain that he’s not drinking anything foul, and lets it fill with clean water. He finds himself smiling at his own ingenuity as he drinks the cool, clear liquid. It’s heaven to his parched throat.   
  
Once he’s had his fill, Buddy warily returns to the table with an empty mug and carefully picks at the food, wondering how in the world Mister Drew managed to sneak ink into a shepherd’s pie. It’s any wonder how it’s possible, it’s not even darkened from the stuff being sneaked in.   
  
Warily, he takes a bite and screws his face up at the taste. Disgusting. Probably something that won’t change anytime soon, to his chagrin. His mind wanders as he eats, wondering if he’ll be seeing Joey anytime today. He hopes not. Yesterday was just… too much.   
  
He might just end up exploding on Mister Drew. And Buddy is not the kind of person to explode.    
  
He finishes his food and, not knowing what to do with the plate, leaves his dishes on the table to go and practice some more at his desk. There’s not much else to do besides sit and stare into space. He’s kind of scared about what Joey will do if he hasn’t gotten better with his left hand. He decides to practice his writing instead of drawing. If he can master that, drawing will be a lot easier. So he starts writing a letter to his mother.   
  
Three words in, and he already feels frustrated and clumsy. He has no idea why Mister Drew wants him to use his left hand. His right hand is perfectly usable, and better than his left even! It’s stupid. Messily, he scrawls as much across the page. When he’s done with that, he throws the pen back onto the desk with a small sigh. Why is he even going along with this?   
  
He eyes his arm wound, the four symmetrical, evenly spaced holes puffy with black pus.   
  
… Fear. Fear is why.   
  
Buddy buries his face in his hands, sighing. Mister Drew’s behavior change was so sudden, so harsh and blindsiding. Buddy has no clue what to do or think about any of this. Just a few days ago, Mister Drew was taking Buddy to get a nice suit. And now… now he’s stabbing him and calling him the wrong name and somehow feeding him ink. This is all so  _ wild.  _ Even at the best of times, Buddy isn’t the best when it comes to conflict. He guesses that he might get better at that if Mister Drew keeps up this behavior.    
  
Shaking his head, he picks the pen back up to get back to practicing. He’s using his right hand to practice drawing for now. Maybe once he gets that down, he can switch back to his other hand so Mister Drew doesn't stab him again or something worse.   
  
He spends the next however long drawing, deliberating to himself and checking the door out now and again between doodles. He quits once his hand starts to hurt and gets up to stretch some. Now knowing there’s a door out, he tries the handle, reasonably sure that Joey won’t be coming to check on him today. Locked, established by a few cursory jiggles of the handle. His face puckers sourly and he swears under his breath. That’s the natural solution. Lock it. Who in the world wouldn’t do that?   
  
Buddy feels like an idiot for even trying that. Everyone locks the door when they want to keep something out or in. Even the Ink Demon’s door was locked.   
  
He, hungry again, turns to the stove. He looks through the pantry, undecided on what he should eat. He eventually picks just some soup and gets a pot ready with a couple cans. The soup… looks like it was  _ made  _ with ink in it. It’s wholly unappetising, but… it’s all he has. Buddy sighs and prepares the soup anyways despite his better judgement.   
  
He misses his mother’s cooking.   
  
The soup smells rancid when heated up, to the point where Buddy considers dumping it in the toilet and flushing it out of his life, but his hunger deters that thought process. It would do no good to waste food, no matter how terrible it smells. Buddy is not a person to waste perfectly good food, no matter how terrible it may seem. He tells himself he should be grateful he even has soup to complain about as he ladles it into a bowl and hunts down the silverware.   
  
And so he stomachs the soup. Barely.   
  
He uses the mug to wash down the soup with as much water as he can drink without feeling ill. “That’s disgusting.” he mutters to himself. “Must have gone bad. How long was that in there?”   
  
… How long had Joey been planning this, Buddy wonders to himself. How long has he been looking for the perfect kid to snatch up and scream into being this Henry guy? Buddy stares into his empty mug with wide, horrified eyes. “... How long has he been waiting for his… second Henry?”   
  
He heads over to the pantry to check the expiration dates on the cans.   
  
All set to two years from now. These cans are too new to have been here for a long term plan like Buddy had just been assuming. Then how did Mister Drew get all of this set up for him so quickly? It doesn’t make sense...   
  
Buddy jumps at a quiet thump, thinking he hears someone approaching. He scrabbles to set the mug on the tray and heads over to the desk, practicing with his left hand in case Mister Drew indeed walks inside. After a long, tense while… nothing. Is all this time alone making him paranoid? Still, he practices with his left hand, just in case, just to make sure that there’s some sort of improvement that won’t get him in deep water.   
  
Or ink.   
  
Ha-ha, he thinks he’s funny.   
  
Buddy shudders, remembering that he’d almost gotten dragged into the ink. A hand goes to his side, resting on the cold ink of where the… demon thing had bitten him. He’d almost died, there. And he could die here, from Mister Drew’s insane plan.   
  
He wonders if Dot got out alright. Oh, he prays that she did. If she managed to get out okay… it would make this mess a little more bearable.   
  
He blinks down at the sloppy, idle sketch of his friend he’d drawn while he was thinking. It looks all lopsided and has way too many, way too wobbly lines. He has to resist the urge to ball up the expensive paper and throw it away. It’s too nice, and he’s scared of what Joey will do to him, so he just keeps trying until it looks sort of okay. That’s… better, he supposes, but it doesn’t help his self confidence any.   
  
He doesn’t know how long he draws, but the lights go out on him eventually. “I-is it nighttime?” he asks himself aloud, unsure. He sits tensely in the silence, waiting for something to happen.    
  
Nothing does.   
  
But even so, he doesn’t move, scarcely daring to breathe out of sheer fear. He spends a good while like this, tense and quiet. Still nothing. Did… the lights just get turned off for the night?   
  
Eventually, his frightful puffing gets to be too much for his panicked mind, so he gets up to rectify that with a little bit of noise and investigation. There has to be some kind of light sources in this place besides the lights in the ceiling. If all else fails, he can just use the wood stove as a lamp.   
  
Clumsily, Buddy stumbles over to the cabinets, thinking he may have seen some candles in the cupboards during his initial examination of the room. Candles he finds, even with an accompanying candle holder, and he carefully lights one after mounting it in the holder. “There we go. Now my clown feet won’t kill me,” he comments aloud to himself, trying to feel a little less lonely. He doesn’t care if he looks crazy. No one is watching him. He can do anything he wants to comfort himself. He stares at the wobbling white flame for a few moments, allowing himself to be mesmerized by it.   
  
The little, struggling flame is almost friendly-looking to him. His only companion in a scary, confusing situation that has him feeling all scrambled like he’s made of eggs. He sets the tall little candle down on a flat section of desk and sits down to resume his practicing. He thinks he’s finally getting the hang of using his left hand after who knows how long.   
  
Eventually, everything gets dark to his brain again; he cracks open his eyes to a well-lit room and his face pressed against the desk. He blinks slowly, disoriented, as he processes where he is. There’s a crick in his back as he sits up, and it takes popping his spine to alleviate it, and there’s a piece of paper stuck to his face; the ink had still been wet, leaving smudges and lines on both his face and the paper as he slowly peels it off. He rubs his face clean with the collar of his shirt, uncaring if he stains it. Under the candle he’d lit, there sits a note in Mister Drew’s clean and straight scrawl.   
  
_ Henry, _ __   
__   
_ I walked in and found you asleep at your desk. You always did like to put your nose to the grindstone. It’s nice to see you getting back into the groove of things! Just make sure you aren’t working too hard.  _ __   
__   
_ I brought you your breakfast. It may be cold by the time you wake up, but I’m sure you’ll enjoy it. We need to get you nourished so you aren’t skin and bones! I’ll see you later at lunchtime. _ __   
__   
_ Your dear old pal, _ __   
__   
_ Joey Drew _ __   
__   
The signature is loopy and flourished, every bit as extravagant as the man himself. Buddy just… stares at the note. It must have been recently written. “What does he mean by skin and bones? I’m just… skinny.” Buddy mumbles aloud to himself   
  
How long has he been asleep? Surely just overnight. There’s only one note, and Joey probably would have left more if Buddy had been asleep for longer. Buddy stretches as he stands up, self conscious about how his knuckles brush against the low ceiling, letting a yawn strike his mouth muscles. His middle feels exposed again, and he quickly lowers his arms, face flushing hotly. He doubts that he’ll ever get used to that.    
  
He sits at the table to eat the inky-tasting food. The flavor is even stronger when it’s cold, and he’s fairly certain that these simply aren’t eggs and sausage and toast. It’s too foul, not stained enough, for that. He does the tried and true routine of dumping the ink in the mug and drinking water from the tap before he debates on what to do with his… he guesses that it’s night now.   
  
He stares at himself in the bathroom mirror after having his fill of water, absorbing his reflection after not having seen it since he’d gotten kidnapped. He’s still got his baby face, that round heart-shaped chin framed with his mom’s hazelnut hair that’s currently hanging limp and tangled from poor care and inability to wash it. He’s still smudged with ink and dirt from before he’d gotten captured, and in this light his green eyes look almost yellow. He feels disgusting and like a mess, but he still looks like himself at least. Small mercy after everything that’s happened. He’s distinctly aware that Mister Drew will be trying to rob that of him, so he’s not going to look this gift horse in the mouth, as sickly as this horse may be.   
  
It won’t last him long.   
  
He thinks he lost the metaphor on that one.   
  
He takes the opportunity to try washing up the fork stab wound in his forearm. He hisses in pain, and the wound runs from black to red after a few minutes of scrubbing.   
  
Honestly… it’s probably better that he uses his left hand for a while. Joey had stabbed his right arm, and now it was a bit painful to use. He’s a little wary to clean the rest of his wounds, especially without any bandages to wrap them up.   
  
That gives him an idea.   
  
He scuffles back out into the main room and over to his desk. Using a fresh sheet of paper, he writes a note to Mis- Joey. He has to call him Joey. He writes a note to Joey requesting some bandages.   
  
And better fitting clothes. No, no, scribble that part out. Maybe install a shower? Yeah, that’s better. Shower and soap, so he doesn’t feel like a walking greaseball. He makes sure to slather on thanks for the food and clothes, figuring buttering up the man would make it more likely that his requests will be filled.   
  
Buddy hesitates at the end of the note, debating on signing it. He puts his pen to the page before deciding against it and setting it to the side. He tucks the note under the mug and sits back down at the desk, wondering what to do now. His freshly cleaned arm is throbbing painfully and weeping slowly with red, and he’s starting to regret cleaning the ink out a little. The wound is just high enough that it could bleed all over the shirt, so Buddy rolls up the sleeves, making the shirt feel even more ridiculously small on him.   
  
He internally chastises himself for his poor decision. He should have asked for the bandages before he cleaned any of his wounds. But now he has to bleed out or wait for the ink to cover his stab wound again.    
  
He stares up at the ceiling, counting planks idly as he tries to whittle away the forever he’s stuck with. Feeling like that isn’t wasting time enough, Buddy sighs and turns back to the desk. Feeling immensely bored, he picks up the pen with his right hand and gets back to drawing with not much else he can do. What he wouldn’t give for a book to read.   
  
He decides to give Cowboy Bendy another shot. Third time’s the charm, right?   
  
He doesn’t know how long he spends drawing, trying to get that horse right, when he hears the door open. Buddy freezes, slowly turning his head to look at Joey Drew standing in the doorway. Slowly, Joey backs out. He quickly returns with a loud, cacophonous bang as he slams the door open with his foot.    
  
“ ** _I TOLD YOU TO USE YOUR OTHER HAND!_ ** ” the man screeches, holding a fire axe in his bony hands. Buddy screams in alarm and tries to dart into the bathroom. Joey whacks Buddy on the back of his head with the flat side of the axe and pins his right arm down with a foot once the gangly teen in on the floor. There’s a dull  _ ker-CHUNK-  _ and immeasurable pain floods Buddy’s senses. The teen wails, and Joey seems to back off.   
  
Buddy clumsily pushes himself to his knees to see what Joey did and-   
  
His hand is gone. A few inches below his stab wound is a gaping, bleeding mess of red and black, his bones visible in the cross-section. He sobs dryly, fighting the urge to vomit from both the pain and the sight of the grisly wound, and grabs at the stump with his only working hand. His vision blurs, and salty little knives stab at the remains of his arm, and he realizes that he’s crying. He looks up at Joey with teary eyes.   
  
“M-Mister Drew…” Buddy sobs. “W-what are you doing?! Why are you doing this?!”   
  
The wrinkled man just screws up his face in disgust, kneeling down to take the dismembered hand. “You won’t be needing this anymore, Henry. You’re not getting this back until you’re using the  __ correct hand.”   
  
With that, Joey leaves, letting Buddy curl up on the floor and bleed, sobbing to himself in sheer shock.   
  
After a while, the teen blinks hazily; realizing he’s losing too much blood, he staggers to his feet. Clumsily, he walks over to the dresser and grabs a pair of socks. He awkwardly pulls the fabric over his stump, layering it a bit to try and staunch the blood better. It hurts like hell, but it’s better than nothing.   
  
He then walks over to the desk and collapses against it, sobbing again. He doesn’t want to get blood all over the couch.    
  
He needs to write Dot about this. On the off chance she gets it. Let her know what’s going on with him and that he needs help. With his only remaining hand, Buddy fumbles for a fresh page, smearing the corner of the stack with his blood, and gets to writing.


	3. Chapter 3

  
He can’t breathe.   
  
He stares into space, clutching his stump of an arm to his chest. His chest feels tight, his tongue thick in his mouth.   
  
Joey hasn’t visited in three light-dark cycles. It feels like it’s been an eternity. His arm still throbs angrily at him, and his brain is still fuzzy and unclear. It’s hard to think like this. He can’t even string together the command  _ go eat something _ despite how much his stomach growls at him, adding onto his fervor and dissociation. The world around him as been spinning for a while, and now he thinks he’s finally coming into the clear.   
  
His mind feels like it’s cooking in his skull, and the room smells of a mix of the irony bite of blood and the rancid rubber of ink. With a shuddering breath, Buddy forces himself to sit up despite how that makes his entire center of balance topple over, and uses the wall to drag himself into the bathroom. He, in his cloud of incoherence, knows he needs to clean his arm or else it’ll get infected if it hasn’t already.   
  
He peels off the sheath of black socks, now soaked and ruined, to look at the furious slice taken out of his arm. The bleeding has slowed down to a weeping trickle, black blotches of ink already taking over and trying to congeal over it. He whimpers to himself, gagging a bit in disgust and pain, and thrusts the open limb into the jet of hot water he barely remembers turning on. The water  _ burns _ , and tears prick Buddy’s eyes as he stubbornly holds his arm under the faucet, scarcely daring to touch the open muscle.   
  
The spots of black don’t go away. The ink is going to come back despite his best efforts.   
  
Maybe it’s better to let the ink win this one. At least then he could have his hand back. Maybe. Possibly.   
  
Buddy sobs again. Oh god, Joey took his  _ hand.  _ No person in any mindset would just go chopping off people’s hands! Buddy just stands, crying over the sink at what happened to him. He can’t even feel the back of his head hurting over his arm.   
  
“This is so fucked up!” he rasps to himself. He uses his hand to wipe his eyes. “W-why would Mister Drew do this?! What does he  _ want  _ from me?!”   
  
He doesn’t know how long he spends standing there in shock, but Joey’s voice instantly makes him go silent, choking on air.   
  
“Oh Henry, I’m back! Sorry it took so long, I had to shake off some of the paparazzi.”   
  
Buddy spends a second wondering who Henry is before he remembers. Joey’s friend. Joey’s convinced that Buddy is his friend. He can only give a shuddering breath in response, and the door can be heard closing.   
  
“Henry? Where are you?”   
  
Words are difficult to put together.   
  
“B-bathroom.” Buddy manages to whine out, feeling like a petulant child with a skinned knee. Joey walks in, sees the state he’s in, and starts tutting.    
  
“Poor fella. I warned you, you know.” Joey tisks. “You never do listen to me. Always pushing back. Get your arm dried, I brought you a surprise.”    
  
Buddy stares after Joey as the man leaves, pulling his arm out from under the scalding water. He clumsily dries it off with the now-bloodstained hand towel hanging up by the sink and scuffles out into the main room. Joey makes him sit down and- holy shit are those bandages? Buddy watches in childish, distant awe as Joey stops up the weeping from the stump with a big wad of gauze and wraps it up tightly with bandages, fresh and white and clean like linen from a hotel. Joey pats his arm when he’s done bandaging it, and Buddy can’t help but stare in shock at his arm. Joey presses the back of his hand to Buddy’s forehead and hisses in sympathy.   
  
“You’ve got a pretty bad fever, there. I’ll make you some soup, and you can go lay down, okay? Try not to put any weight on your arm.”   
  
Buddy nods dumbly, sitting on the couch with wide eyes.   
  
“D-did you read my note?” he finally asks, tongue resisting him and causing his speech to slur.   
  
“That I did! Not much I can do right now as far as the shower goes, but everything else is easy enough.”   
  
Buddy nods slowly, feeling for all the world like he’s an alien in his own skin. His mind simply refuses to let him accept that this is his new reality, his new life.   
  
  
“You did lay it on a bit thick with the thank yous, though. Next time, don’t be so aggrandizing.” Buddy stares at Joey again with that, and Joey gives the teen a knowing, wry smirk. The younger tilts his head, not really knowing what the word means. Joey rolls his eyes with a fond grin.   
  
“Geez, you have such a baby face. We really should get to fixing that.”   
  
There’s the return of the cold fear, dousing his bones in the brine of the Atlantic under his goosepimpled skin.   
  
“W-what do you mean by that, sir?”   
  
Joey gestures wildly as he stirs the soup. “You’re supposed to look sharp! Rugged! Dashing! Not like some schoolboy that got lost on his way to the bus stop.”   
  
Buddy self-consciously bites his lip. His mother used to joke about how Buddy got his legs before anything else, and his stupid clown feet didn’t help with that. “I’m… sorry sir.” he mumbles.   
  
“Oh, it’s not your fault, Henry! We just need to hurry along the process! I consulted a good doctor friend of mine that gave me a very good idea on how to do that.”   
  
He gestures to a box on the table.   
  
“Pure testosterone.” Joey explains, and Buddy feels his blood run cold.   
  
“S-sir, isn’t that… a bad thing?” Buddy asks slowly.   
  
“Nonsense, it’s perfectly safe! Got cleared for medical use in thirty-nine!”   
  
That was only six years ago, wasn’t it? Buddy doesn’t know how long he’s been down here. It was summer, though, it can’t have been too long. He shivers coldly, though.   
  
“W-what’ll it do to me?” Buddy asks fearfully. Joey turns and gives him a smug look.   
  
“I’ll give you three guesses, old pal.”   
  
Buddy swallows thickly as Joey sets a hot bowl of soup into his lap.   
  
“Make… me… look… older?” he guesses quietly.   
  
“Got it in one! You were always pretty sharp!” Joey congratulates, and… Buddy can’t help but feel a little better at the praise. The teen smiles nervously and awkwardly spoons the soup into his mouth. He feels so hungry, it’s no wonder he felt so dizzy and off-kilter. Normally, not eating wouldn’t bother him, he’s used to long stretches of time without food in the tenaments, but the blood loss on top of it just made it too much for him. “We’ll wait for that mess to stop bleeding before we start giving you any of the testosterone, though.” Joey hums conversationally, taking the chair at the table. “Until then, it’ll just be you and me. You must like all the time you’ve had to draw.”   
  
Buddy doesn’t respond to that, too busy stuffing his face full of soup. He can’t even bring himself to care about how terrible it tastes. He uses his arm stump to keep the bowl stable as he eats, and he can’t help but feel like some kind of oversized scarecrow, sitting on the couch with his knees nearly drawn to his chest. Joey watches him eat, staring and seeming to take in the boy. His lips are moving - not a huge amount, barely at all, but Buddy can see it through the staring, and a faint whispering can be heard.   
  
Buddy pauses when he thinks he hears Joey talking louder.   
  
“Hm?”   
  
Joey blinks and waves him off. “Oh, nothing. You’re just… eating so quickly, I’m worried you’ll make yourself sick.”   
  
That’s a lie. Buddy can tell.   
  
“Uh, I’ll be fine, Mister… Joey.”   
  
Joey claps Buddy on the back. “Well, somebody has to worry about you!”   
  
Mom used to say that a lot. Buddy’s throat closes up. Dot would have said that, he bets, if it weren’t for their fight.   
  
“Henry? What’s wrong?”   
  
Buddy’s eyes well up with tears. “... I wanna go home, Mister Drew…”   
  
He feels the back of his shirt get balled up in a fist.   
  
“Sorry, Henry. You can’t go home until you’re ready to do your job.”   
  
Buddy abruptly stands up, spilling the bowl on the floor. “Mister Drew, I’m just a gofer!” he wails. “I’m not Henry, and I don’t want to be!”   
  
Joey stares at Buddy with a blank expression. He sighs eventually. “I thought you were finally coming around…” he hums before pushing the wobbly Buddy back onto the couch and heading over to the box. “We may need to start your treatment early…”   
  
He waltzes back over to the still-disoriented Buddy and holds him down with his elbow, filling up the syringe in his hand with a clear liquid Buddy knows instinctively isn’t water.   
  
Buddy looks away, and his arm burns. He can’t help but hiss in pain as the stinging slowly fades. “There we go, that wasn’t so bad was it?” Joey coaxes, the sound of glass tinkling making Buddy realize he isn’t being held down anymore. He has to take several seconds just to breathe, calm down, and look at the tiny red spot on his arm.   
  
It seems so small compared to what happened with his hand, but at the same time… it feels like the beginning of the end of Buddy- of  _ Daniel,  _ of his entire personality as he knows it should be _ . _   
  
Buddy watches Joey walk away in another dazed haze.   
  
“... H-how am I supposed to open the cans with one hand?” he hazards to ask disjointedly - trying desperately to forget what just happened - as he watches the man work with whatever he’s doing, and Joey freezes as if he hadn’t considered that.   
  


“... You’ll figure it out. You’re smart like that. You know how to open a can normally, don’t you?”   
  
That’s not an answer, Buddy thinks bitterly.   
  
“That’s as good of an answer as you’re going to get!” Joey barks and whirls on his heel, and Buddy jumps. He realizes he had spoken aloud.    
  
“Y-yes sir…”   
  
Joey gives Buddy a small glare, and Buddy had thought that they were finally getting along again.   
  
“Sorry, sir…”   
  
Joey gives a long, low sigh.   
  
“Just… watch what you say, Henry.”   
  
Buddy presses his lips together, nodding quickly. Joey pats him on the shoulder, a smile crossing his face again. “At least now, you’re getting a jumpstart on looking like yourself again!”   
  
“Y-yeah.” Buddy responds simply, too tired to argue anymore. He gets up. “I-I should get myself some more soup and clean up the mess.”   
  
“Oh, pish-posh, I’ll get the soup for you.”   
  
Buddy watches Joey walk over to the stove, and a wild idea strikes him. No. No, save it for later. When he’s not weakened by blood loss and starvation.    
  
Buddy instead retrieves the stained hand towel, wetted down, to scrub the soup off the floor, moving the bowl pieces and spoon to the table. “Sorry for breaking that bowl, J-Joey.” he apologizes. “It’s… a lot to process, you know? It’s so hard to tell time down here, so it feels like it’s all happening at once.”   
  
Maybe if he plays along a little, Joey will be… gentler with him. Or something like that.   
  
“Ah, yes, I figured that would happen. I’ll be sure to bring you a clock the next time I visit. And don’t worry about the bowl, I’ll replace it.”   
  
Buddy nods agreeably. “A clock would be nice. So would, uh… books. And maybe playing cards. Stuff to do besides draw or eat or stare into space…”   
  
Joey nods, in clear contemplation. “Yes, I suppose it can get pretty boring in here. I’ll see what I can do, Henry old boy!”   
  
That bright smile fills Buddy with a wave of relief he wasn’t expecting. Playing along… is actually proving an effective method of not getting hurt so far. As long as he reminds himself that he’s just acting until he can escape. He nervously smiles back. “W-what do you say to a game of cards in the future, then? I’m sure I can, uh… I can figure out how to play with one hand. How do you plan on giving me my hand back in the future, by-by the way?”   
  
Keeping up conversations is so hard. Buddy isn’t really the talkative sort. At least, he never regarded himself as such. He hopes Henry wasn’t the most talkative either.   
  
“With the ink, of course. It won’t be perfect, but I’ve been looking into ways to… rectify that.”   
  
Buddy keeps the smile plastered on his face as he gets up while Joey walks over with the fresh bowl, trying his best to hide the apprehensive shiver he gets. “Ways like what?”   
  
Joey shrugs, trading the ruined hand towel for the bowl. “Perfecting my realism.” he responds simply. “Three-dimensional art can’t be much harder than two-dimensional.”   
  
“You’re going to draw cartoons into being real?” Buddy asks before he can stop himself.   
  
“Why of course! The machine is good at getting the brunt of the work done, but sometimes a fine eye and a skilled human hand is what you need to perfect the process.” Joey taps his forehead with a smirk. “And I am all about perfection.”   
  
“I noticed.” Buddy responds dryly before he can stop himself. He clamps his jaw shut fearfully as he waits for Joey’s retaliation, but… doesn’t get it? Instead, Joey laughs heartily at the little poke, roughly clapping Buddy on the back again.    
  
“That’s the Henry I know and love!”   
  
Buddy joins in on the laughter nervously. He doesn’t understand. Didn’t Joey hate pointed jabs like that? What makes that little statement so different from the others he’d said?   
  
He’s so confused. Joey isn’t making any sense.

  
“You… you don’t mind being insulted?”   
  
“It’s not an insult if it’s sarcasm.” Joey informs, turning a critical eye up towards Buddy.   
  
“O-oh yeah. Sarcasm…” Just let Joey believe that.   
  
Buddy sits and eats his soup more slowly than he had before, internally hating how he’s already getting used to eating with his left hand. His brain is finally starting to straighten out, he thinks. Words and thoughts are easier to string together than they had been before. He supposes that’s a good thing. Makes it easier to plan a way out of this mess.   
  
Joey watches Buddy carefully, almost unblinkingly were it not for the twitching of his fingers and eyelids. It takes a bit for Buddy to notice, but once he does he becomes quickly unsettled.   
  
“C-can you please not stare at me, Mih- Joey?”   
  
Joey blinks, like he had before. “Ah, don’t worry! It’s just been years since we’ve really had a chance to talk.”   
  
“This is… this is the second time this visit, though.”   
  
Joey waves him off again. “It’s  _ nothing. _ ”   
  
His tone makes Buddy’s jaw tighten.   
  
“Yeah, I… uh… I’m just paranoid…”   
  
Buddy finishes his soup and sets the bowl on the table. “I’m-I’m tired.” he lies, faking a yawn. “I could use a nap. I wasn’t able to sleep much while you were gone.”   
  
“Aww, did you miss me that much?”   
  
Buddy doesn’t dignify that with an answer, just laughing awkwardly. “I’ve been meaning to ask… can I get a blanket, too? It, uh, it gets pretty chilly in here.”   
  
Joey waves him off. “Anything for you, old friend.”   
  
The shorter man takes the dishes and walks out of the room. Buddy hears the door lock behind him.


End file.
